


Amara

by claudia603



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: F/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-17
Updated: 2010-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-06 09:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia603/pseuds/claudia603
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faramir relates a haunting tale from his youth to Frodo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amara

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Shirebound and Baranduin for betas!
> 
> Written for a hobbit_smut challenge.

A few days after the King’s coronation, the Ringbearer collapsed during a celebration feast and was ordered by the King to rest in bed for no less than a week in the Houses of Healing.

At first Frodo was too ill to do much but lie in bed, drifting in and out of feverish sleep. Visitors wearied him, so he was secretly glad that Aragorn kept his cousins and Sam so occupied so that they had time to visit him only about once a day. Under the gentle care of the King, his strength returned within a few days.

Now, with four days still left of his confinement, he left his bed to stand beside the window in the golden spring sunlight. He listened to the music of children’s laughter and birdsong, now lonely and restless. He longed to take a nice, long walk through the city.

The sun had nearly set when a knock on the door startled him. Frodo was surprised when Faramir entered.

“I hope you do not mind the intrusion, Frodo,” Faramir said, and he bowed slightly.

“Not at all.” Frodo’s heart was glad. He had seen Faramir during the coronation but not since then. They had not yet had the chance to speak under the new sun, as they had vowed in darker days. “Please…do come in.”

“I’m not disturbing your sleep?”

Frodo shook his head with vigor. “I feel much better and in fact, I’m feeling rather…” He spread his hands out in aggravation.

“Restless?” Faramir asked. When Frodo settled back into bed, Faramir sat on the edge of a wooden stool and gave him a wry smile. “I know how you feel. I spent several days here.”

Frodo’s cheeks reddened. He was embarrassed by the lack of comfortable seating for his guest. When the hobbits visited, they had no qualms about piling on the bed with him, but he could hardly suggest something so undignified to this noble man of Gondor. “I’m sorry I do not have something more comfortable for you to sit on.”

Faramir shook his head to indicate that he did not mind. “Are you hungry? Have you eaten yet?”

“I am always eager for a meal.” Frodo did not feel the need to tell Faramir that he had already eaten, not more than two hours earlier, a hefty noon meal of cold meats, cheeses, thick, creamy mushroom soup, and freshly baked bread.

“I shall arrange for food and wine to be brought to us.” Faramir raised his brows. “Fear not. I shall order enough for a hobbit’s appetite.”

Frodo flushed, suddenly somewhat embarrassed by Faramir’s gentle attention. “You did not have to come here to entertain a sick hobbit. Sam should be back soon.”

Faramir chuckled. “Are you certain? When I last saw them, your friends were just sitting down to begin feasting.”

Frodo laughed. “I’d not have it any other way. I shall gladly accept your company then…that is, if you do not have somewhere you would rather be.”

Faramir leaned forward on his stool. “I’ve wanted to speak to you since you returned beyond all hope.”

“You have?”

“Aye. I have wanted to thank you for your deeds. I have no words…”

Frodo gave a firm shake of his head lifted his hand to stop Faramir from continuing. “I do not wish for sober conversation just now. I long for friendship rather than for any honor.”

Faramir asked Frodo about the Shire, and Frodo cheerfully talked. He found Faramir an attentive listener. The food and wine arrived, and Frodo hardly tasted it. He had been so hungry for companionship that just hearing Faramir’s voice filled and warmed him. Faramir told Frodo tales from his and Boromir’s childhood that kept Frodo chuckling until his sides hurt.

The night crept on, and a spring storm rolled in. Wind rattled the wooden chimes outside the window.

“On nights such as these in the Shire,” Frodo said, “it is traditional for someone to tell a haunting tale.”

Faramir was silent and his eyes seemed to be staring at something far away.

“Do you have one to tell?” Frodo asked curiously. “I believe I may have heard all tales of haunting in the Shire. I imagine a city such as this must have many a bone-chilling tale. This does not disturb you, does it?” Seeing Faramir’s sober expression made him concerned that Men perhaps considered haunting tales disrespectful to the dead.

At last Faramir spoke. “It is a strange tale, believed by none. Over the years I have come to believe that perhaps it was a dream. Are you weary, Frodo? Should I leave you to rest?"

Frodo crossed his arms. “Absolutely not. I want to hear your tale.”

“Very well.”

For many moments, Faramir was silent. Then he drained his wineglass and began.

  
***

It has always been said that some of the most haunting poetry in Middle-earth comes from the scorching deserts of Haradwaith. Mostly oral, chanted into the wind on lonely desert nights and buried under centuries of blowing sand, shared in one familiar night and then forgotten by most, but held close to the heart of the poet. The nomadic tribes of the cruel Haradrim at times crossed paths to make brief cautious battle alliances and share a night of fire and dance, a meal of the sweet dried _tamir_ fruit and rich red wine. Sometimes love was forged during the undulating dance to the rhythmic _khal_ drum, a flash of dark eyes, the inviting sway of jeweled fingers, desperate embraces on plush carpet in tents that failed to fully block the moonlight. Then the blazing sun rose, and the two tribes trekked their separate ways into the unforgiving desert, leaving the grieving lovers with naught but memory of moonlight.

The cadence of this mournful poetry often followed the rhythms of the bells that hung from the hump-backed _jamel_ that trekked in trains across the sands. In every train there was always one who sings, to keep the animals in line. The _jamel_, you see, love music. It keeps their timid minds from startling over hares and other small animals on their path that could cause a _jamel_ to flee the train. After a time, the _jamel_ begin to step in time, to sway their long necks back and forth, in rhythm of the bells and singing voice, all in a slow, haunting beat, like the _khal_ drum.

When I was a man of only eighteen summers, my father, who even then never failed to show his open scorn for what he saw as my many lacks, especially pertaining to matters of battle, summoned me.

“Faramir, the time has come at last that you prove your worth to me as your brother already has on many occasions. I am going to put you in charge of an army of our Rangers. I bid you lead them to South Ithilien.” He beckoned to Faramir to study the map spread out before him on the heavy table and pointed along a strip of far South Ithilien. “Our scouts have given word of an army of Haradrim heading toward Mordor, no doubt to give their alliance to the Enemy.”

“Yes, Father,” I said, but already I felt doubt creep through me. If I failed in this, any chance of proving my worth might be lost.

My father smiled, but it was a thin smile that never reached his eyes. “Do you think you can handle this task? Or should I give it to your brother?”

“Father, it shall be done,” I said, crossing my hand over my breast and bowing.

“Gather your men and set off at sunrise.”

The Haradrim army was said to be following Harad Road in a long train of _jamel_, desert horses and _mumakil_, the enormous gray creatures of nightmares. My men and I dressed in the greens and browns to blend into the woods of Ithilien, our faces masked, just as the Haradrim would be.

We hid in the brush, spread out along a long swath of trees and brush, hidden and camouflaged from Harad Road. Although we were separated from one another, I had introduced the birdcall to my men as a way of battle call when the time came. The _mumakil_, at least, would be seen and heard from leagues upon leagues away.

When the sun went down, leaving a chilly late autumn night, I felt I had never seen such darkness. I had never before slept in the wild alone. I was ashamed to feel a quiver up my back as the moon rose high in the sky and mist curled about the trees like lost spirits. I was not afraid of the approaching Haradrim. I bear no love for battle or war, but Gondor has always known war, and gladly would I have given my life for Her. Nay, I do not know exactly what I feared in the curling mist and whispering leaves. There were tales from childhood, heard whisperings from the servant maids and our wet nurse. Of course Boromir had always scorned such tales of spirits and terrors out of Mordor. His answer was the sword and he feared nothing in the night.

I had just fallen into a light sleep when a pitiful whimper, followed by a low, shuddering groan woke me. The stars had shifted, and the moon seemed brighter. Heart thudding, I looked around me, squinting into the horizon. I had assigned men to rotate different watches. The Haradrim were not expected to approach until well into daylight, but if those men on watch saw anything, they had not sounded an alarm. The groaning began again.

I imagined that it had to be an animal of which I was not familiar.

I had much to prove, and already I could feel the silent disapproval of some of the men under my command, many of whom were at least ten years my elder.

I roused myself, gathered my arrows, and crept in the direction of the sound. I followed the mournful groaning and whimpering, like a grief-stricken lover, which seemed at first to come from one direction and then the other, and after a time, I had to admit I was lost. Wherever I turned, there was nothing that looked familiar, and I had not encountered any of my men. I felt a fool.

But the dreadful sounds grew ever louder. I stumbled into a clearing, and there I found one of the creatures of the Haradrim, the hump-backed _jamel_, sitting, legs folded under her. But unlike the tan creatures that blended into the desert, of which I had often heard, this one was the color of the snow on the top of Mount Mindolluin.

The animal was injured; one bloody leg was twisted under her at an odd angle. She twisted her long neck up and studied me with liquid black eyes that seemed to me full of keen intelligence, and she let out a pitiful groan and whimper. I set down my bow, but kept my sword close at hand, in case I was set upon.

I thought I could at least try to do my part to make the creature more comfortable. If not, I could put her out of her misery, as much as I recoiled from killing any beast without necessity. I undid the mask from around my mouth and approached the animal.

“There now,” I said as softly as I could. “I’m not going to hurt you.” I wrapped my mask around the bloody wound. I worried that the _jamel_ might bite and their bite was said to be poisonous.

Then a haunting voice carried on the wind, so rich and beautiful that my heart stood still, and the creature in my care stopped groaning and turned her head in what looked like joyful familiarity. I stood, my back to the animal, entranced by this song that echoed through and around tree branches, and I was moved near to weeping. The moonlight brightened, a brisk, hot wind rustled the trees, and I warmed nearly to the point that I had no need of my cloak. The exquisite voice undulated and I caught Westron words mingled with that of a language unfamiliar to me.

_Laysh, laysh, why, why do you flee across the sands…  
My heart still breaks for you  
Laysh, laysh…_

The song chilled my heart, so mournful and cold. And then a tall, slender figure, dressed from head to toe in black cloth of ethereal silk with a crown of golden coins around his head and over his face, walked forth from the shadows into the clearing, holding a red, curved sword at me. So large and dark were his eyes – the only part of his face that showed -- that they reflected the moonlight as two brilliant orbs.

I gestured behind me to the injured _jamel_, but to my great shock, the animal was gone, as if she had disappeared into the air or had never been there at all.

“Where…? There was a creature here…injured…” I did not know if this warrior from Harad understood Westron or if he did, whether he would care. The moonlight was so bright – and yellowy in light, almost as if the sun had already risen and given golden light to the trees around us. In the darkness, I was bewildered that I had failed to earlier notice that the slender palm trees, known to thrive only in Umbar and in oases in the harsh Harad desert, existed here in South Ithilien.

“Come…” A cool brown hand took mine, and my nostrils filled with the dark, rich scent of cinnamon and incense. “Sit beside me.”

I sat, and instead of the grass that had been below my feet only minutes before, I found myself on plush carpet. I had seen such carpets before. Occasionally in times of peace, merchants from Umbar came to Minas Tirith to sell their woven carpets. They were worth many coins and only the very wealthy could afford their luxury.

A silver plate filled with the succulent brown-skinned _tamir_ was suddenly on the carpet before me, and I had no recollection of it being prepared. Things moved in slow, dreamy manner, and I wondered if I had stumbled into a vision. “Eat with me.” Wine the color of blood filled two goblets of gold. “Drink with me.”

The _tamir_ filled my tongue with unimaginable sweetness, the wine coursed down my throat, richer than any wine that had come out of cellars of Minas Tirith. The warrior unhooked the coins from around his head and they fell to the carpet with the sound of thousands of tinkling bells, and the black veil fell, and there, before me, sat the most beautiful maiden I have ever laid eyes upon. Large eyes, liquid black, like the purest ink. A heavy inky line surrounded her eyes. Black hair tumbled around her face.

I could not imagine that the Haradrim warriors had sent their women to fight. But she looked sturdy and strong, and she bore arrows on her back, and the red sword of the Southron lay beside her.

I had a dizzying, mad need to kiss her. I wished to crush my lips to hers, to swallow the intoxicating scent, to swim in it and those dark eyes. And yet I could not move. She laughed and fed me more _tamir_ that she said came from tall desert trees from the finest oases.

“Who are you?” I found myself asking, and my voice sounded faraway to me. “What is your name?”

“Amara,” the lady answered, slipping her hand through mine. “I love you. I always have. Why did you leave me?”

She bent forth to kiss me then, and I had never tasted lips of such enchanting softness. I had a dizzying sensation of being caught in a whirlwind, as if the carpet had lifted and spun in concentric circles, and I had only a moment to consider that I had been perhaps overly indulgent of the wine.

There was only her voice, as rich and as sweet as the _tamir_. “Come with me. There will only be joy and paradise…” And she pulled away, and in a mad flicker, like a distant mirage, I caught sight of it. Somehow, still sitting on the carpet, we had risen, far above the trees, and I could see far over the tumbling lands, to the desert and beyond. I caught sight of a city where the sun blazed over towers of gold and tall slender palm trees dripped with rich fruits, and the pale blue sea twinkled. There was no shadow or war there.

But loyalty to father, city, and country was impossible to squelch, and I loved my father and my brother and the people of the city I’d sworn to protect. I could not leave the men under my command.

“Nay, my lady, I cannot,” I said.

Her rich voice dropped and her eyes darkened, veiled by sorrow. I no longer saw therein the moonlight. “Then clear your men out.” The carpet sank to the ground under the canopy of trees again. I do not know how I could have thought that palm trees populated these woods. They were no more. The wind changed, the light dimmed, and a chilly wind blew. “They are coming…The Haradrim have made alliances along the way and there are far more coming than your scouts reported.” She touched a certain place on my chest, the very spot where I was later felled by a Southron arrow in battle, and kissed it. “Remember me in dreams in dark times.”

“Come with me…back to my city,” I begged, clasping her hand. I could not offer her paradise, only my heart.

I found myself suddenly alone on the grass in the middle of the clearing, it was dark and cold, and a rising cloud of smoke drifted upward toward the moon.

After a time, I made my way back and I had no trouble this time finding my men. I summoned them together and we retreated to Minas Tirith without a battle.

My father was displeased by what he perceived as my ultimate cowardice.

A scout later reported the actual armies of Haradrim making their way to Mordor to number in the thousands, far more than the army of rangers that I had led to Ithilien had been prepared to battle. Still, my father gave me no credit for my judgment, for in his mind, I had no way of knowing the numbers of Haradrim.

  
***

“You did not tell him this tale?” Frodo asked.

“Nay.” Faramir grimaced. “Already he thought my mind was addled. I did once tell Mithrandir about it on one of his visits to Minas Tirith. He listened with sober attention and told me that I was lucky to have escaped such an encounter with my wits. Such places have seen much battle and woe. Much blood has been spilled there.”

“Do you suppose she was the ghost of a long dead warrior?”

“Perhaps, if in fact I did not dream it all. As the years pass, I am sometimes uncertain.” Faramir was quiet for several moments. “Also there are the _djinn_ of Harad, spirits of the invisible world, shape-shifters born of smoke and fire, who sometimes show themselves to mortals and bend the world around them. Some are wicked, but others have been known to help.”

Frodo smiled, eager to lighten the sober mood. “For my part, I am glad that you did not ride into the sun on that carpet.”

“It happened so long ago,” Faramir said quietly. After a time, he stood. “I should allow you to rest.” He paused a moment and added, “Would you like it if I returned tomorrow?”

“Please do,” Frodo said, snuggling in his blankets. “Perhaps you’ll have more tales.”

“Perhaps.” Faramir murmured, as if in a dream. The tale had visibly shaken him. “A tale. That was all it was, after all.”

“Would you kindly blow out the lantern for me?” Frodo asked.

Faramir did so and took his leave.

The moonlight filled the room, bright and somewhat yellow-tinted. Frodo had nearly drifted into sleep when the sharp scent of cinnamon and incense drifted under his nostrils and he caught a distant voice -exquisite and mournful –

_Laysh…laysh…_

  
END


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